


Double Barrel

by shadowen



Series: Line of Sight [6]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angsty Schmoop, Family Drama, Holidays, I REGRET NOTHING, M/M, Meet the Family, Thanksgiving, maybe I regret some things
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-26
Updated: 2013-11-26
Packaged: 2018-01-02 16:30:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,756
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1059055
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shadowen/pseuds/shadowen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The resemblance is what scares him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Double Barrel

**Author's Note:**

> Well, y'all asked for it...

Clint expected to be greeted with a shotgun. He really did.

Honestly, he thought a shotgun might have been better than the cool, friendly smile and light handshake that met him.

“Agent Barton. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

Canton Delaware gave the impression of steel, tempered and tested by decades of hard weather. He stood half a head shorter than Clint and a full weight class lighter, but everything in his bearing suggested a man who wasn’t to be dismissed. There was little resemblance between him and Phil, but Clint recognized the same unyielding set of the jaw, the same uncompromising stare.

Clint shook his hand with what he desperately hoped was a charming grin. “I hope at least some of it was good.”

“All of it was,” Phil assured him.

Delaware shrugged. “Fifty-fifty.” At Phil’s glance, he added, “Didn’t say I heard it all from you.”

Right. Former SHIELD agent. Clint wondered suddenly who Delaware might have been talking to and just how worried he should be.

“Careful, dad. Your paranoia is showing,” Phil said dryly, tossing Clint his duffel.

Delaware gave him a look that was distinctly unimpressed and, for Clint, uncannily familiar. “I’m sorry, did you want to leave your beretta in the car or is the switchblade in your sock insufficient protection for suburban Illinois?”

“Point taken.”

“Get yourselves settled. Dinner’s at seven.” He gave Clint a nod as he strode back into the house. “Agent Barton.”

“Sir.”

Phil rubbed at his eyes as the storm door clattered shut. "Have I apologized in advance for this? Because I'm _so_ sorry."

“What? That wasn’t so bad.”

“That was recon,” Phil said. “Preliminary hostilities will commence at seven.”

"Just a preview of what you'll be like at that age, I guess.”

Phil shot him a cold glare. "He's being reasonable enough to let us share a room. It would be a shame if you wound up sleeping on the couch."

"You never make me sleep on the couch."

"First time for everything."

The house was small and spartan, comfortable in the way that Clint had always thought homes were supposed be, even if it somehow felt more empty than seemed right with all the cozy clutter. Phil led him to a bedroom in the back corner that had clearly once been inhabited by a younger, less sophisticated iteration of Phil, if the shelves of carefully-sorted comics, spy novels, and books on military history were any indication. There was a twin bed against one wall, covered by, predictably, a red and blue quilt. On the opposite side of the room, a military cot had been set up and draped with a worn pink coverlet.

“Oh, for christ’s sake,” Phil muttered, setting his bag on the bed. “He thinks he’s funny. Did I say I was sorry? Because I am.”

“It’s okay. I like pink,” Clint said. He draped the coverlet around his head and shoulders and flopped onto the cot, which gave a threatening creak under his weight. The coverlet was scratchy and smelled unpleasantly of mothballs and cedar, and Clint suspected its sole purpose in life was to discomfit Phil’s boyfriends. It made Clint’s stomach twitch to think there had been enough to merit that much strategy.

Phil sighed and sat on the edge of his own bed. “It’s just a few days. If we get through dinner tonight, we can spend tomorrow morning in town. Tomorrow evening’s going to be difficult, but there’s no way around that.”

Clint turned his head to look at Phil over the edge of pink. “I say this as someone who is really and truly freaking out over all this, but are you maybe over-stressing a little?”

Phil shook his head. “You don’t know him. He won’t make threats or give you a talk. He'll make little hints and remarks and microaggressions; he’ll mention his friends at the bureau and SHIELD, people he can call to _make things happen_ , and he’ll do it all with a smile while he carefully and completely freezes you out.”

“Yeah, that doesn’t sound familiar at all.”

“I did learn from the best.”

“You _are_ the best.” Clint went to sit beside him, draping the coverlet around both their shoulders. “If I can handle you, I think I can handle your grumpy old man.”

Phil gave him a raised eyebrow and a sly smile. “Are you under the impression that you’re the one doing the handling in this relationship?”

“Uh huh. What happened to all your talk about _partnership_?” Clint said, elbowing him in the side.

“I changed my mind. I want to be in charge.”

“Sure, right. You go ahead and take charge. I’ll just be your obedient little boy toy.”

“That’s the idea.” Phil leaned in and pressed a warm kiss to the side of Clint’s neck. “Just do as you’re told, and we’ll be fine.”

Clint snorted. “When have I _ever_ done as I’m told?”

“I can think of a few occasions,” Phil said mildly, his mouth hot on Clint’s skin. “Saturday night, for instance.”

“Well, considering what you were telling me to do....” Clint bit his lip as Phil’s teeth scraped his throat. “Okay, yeah, you need to stop.”

Phil slipped an arm around Clint’s waist and ghosted his lips along the edge of his collar. “Oh?”

“No, seriously. I’m not making out with you in your childhood bedroom.”

“You know, it was my teenage bedroom, too,” Phil said, moving up to nip at Clint’s ear.

“Yeah, still creepy.”

Phil sat back, then, and looked at him with a strange expression. “Sometimes....” He trailed off, shaking his head. “I suppose you’re right. It is a little creepy.”

“Little bit.”

He motioned grandly toward the door, the pink coverlet hanging from his arm like a fluffy curtain. “May I offer you the ten-cent tour of my childhood home?”

Clint mirrored the gesture with a grin. “I would be fucking honored.”

There wasn’t much house to show, and the tour went quickly as the autumn light faded outside. Somehow, they managed to avoid running into Phil’s dad until, at seven o’clock exactly, Phil steered Clint into the kitchen where Delaware was unpacking take-out cartons onto the table. The smell of saffron and strong spices wafted through the room, and Clint’s mouth watered.

A glass bottle suddenly appeared in front of him, and Clint took it on reflex before realizing he’d been handed, of all things, a cold beer. He shot Phil a questioning look, and Phil shrugged.

“So, Clinton, is it?” Delaware asked as they sat and began passing the cartons of Indian food.

“Uh, yes, sir. Clint.”

“Well, that’s an unfortunate name.”

“Dad,” Phil said, warning, and his father shrugged.

“Coulda been worse,” Clint put in. “My brother’s name was Barney.”

Delaware raised an eyebrow. “Barney Barton? That’s awful.”

“Feel like I came off lucky, by comparison,” Clint said. He looked at Phil and smiled. “Or just lucky, in general.”

Delaware laughed. “Don’t lay it on too thick, boy. Romance isn’t going to get you very far, around here.”

Clint felt his face heat and hid his embarrassment by shoveling food into his mouth. The dish, which was almost uncomfortably spicy, had a terrible green color and a lumpy, slimy texture, and Clint immediately decided it was one of the _best_ things he’d ever eaten in his life.

“How’s Missus Johnson?” Phil asked, clearly ready to change the subject.

“Fine, fine. Crazy as ever,” Delaware replied. “Everytime I see her, all she does is talk about her cats, complain about her hip, and ask about you. You should go say hello. If you’re not too busy.”

The last part was added with a light chill that Clint didn’t quite understand, but Phil answered in much the same tone. “I was planning to. I thought we might spend tomorrow in town. We can pick up anything you need.”

“How thoughtful,” Delaware said, and Clint was sure he’d just missed something. “Not a pilsner man?” Delaware asked suddenly, turning to Clint with a friendly smile.

Clint blinked. “I... uh....”

“Your beer.” Delaware nodded to the unopened bottle beside Clint. “You don’t want it?”

“Oh. No, I, uh, I don’t drink.” Clint passed the bottle to Phil, who squinted at the label with a frown.

“This isn’t worth drinking, anyway,” he said, setting it back on the table, as far from himself as he could reach. “Trying to give that to a guest is an insult.”

“Only if the guest knows he’s been insulted.” Back to Clint, Delaware asked, “Why not?”

“Why not what?” Every time Clint thought he had the rhythm of the conversation, it changed, and he was starting to feel very much out of his depth.

“Why don’t you drink?” He was staring Clint down with the blandly terrifying look Clint had seen Phil use in interrogations.

Phil cleared his throat. “Dad.”

“It’s just a question,” Delaware said mildly, his eyes still fixed on Clint. “He doesn’t have to answer.”

Except that he did, because this whole stupid thing was a test. Delaware was going to press and push and spin things around until he got Clint’s measure, and then he was going to decide that Clint wasn’t good enough for his only son.

Clint met his eye and said simply, “You’ve read my file.” Delaware paused, then nodded. “Then you know my dad was a mean drunk. I’ve just never been anxious to find out what kind of drunk I’d be.” He shrugged. “That, and I never got the taste for it.”

Delaware huffed and gestured to the bottle in Phil’s hand. “It’s certainly an acquired taste, especially this awful stuff PJ drinks.”

Phil took a swallow of his beer and sighed. “Yet further proof that pop and I both had better taste than you do.”

Something flickered across Delaware’s face, a flash of sorrow that vanished faster than blinking. “You’re right about that.” With a sly smile, he added, “Green apple vodka, aside.”

Phil shuddered. “I was seventeen. Mistakes were made.”

“They certainly were,” Delaware said, chuckling. “What was that one mistake’s name? Kevin? Kenneth?”

“Ray.”

“That’s the one.”

“And that mistake was a direct result of the green apple vodka.” Phil gave Clint an apologetic smile. “High school was a long series of poor decisions and object lessons.”

Clint’s whole life was a series of poor decisions and object lessons, and he was hardly going to fault Phil for any ill-advised liquor and boys. “I thought that’s what high school was supposed to be.”

“Teenage rebellion is one thing,” Delaware told him. “PJ was the most efficient troublemaker in the history of the school district.”

“You have no evidence of that.”

“Fair enough,” he allowed. “What about you, Agent Barton? I imagine you stirred up a bit of trouble as a kid.”

He’d read Clint’s file; he knew the answer, and he was asking anyway. Clint gave him a grin and said, “Still do.”

“So I’ve heard.” He matched Clint’s grin with a flat smile and let that simple statement hang in the air.

The beat of silence that followed was the single most awkward moment Clint had ever experienced.

The affection in Phil’s voice when he broke it was, by contrast, sublime. “That’s not entirely true. You don’t create nearly as much trouble as you attract.”

Clint snorted. “Does that make you trouble?”

“With a capital T.” He met Clint’s eye, smiling. Delaware cleared his throat loudly, and Phil raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. “Yes?”

“Frog in my throat.”

“Mmhm.”

Clint turned on Delaware with a bright, beaming grin. “I don’t know what this shit is, but it’s fantastic,” he said, indicating his plate.

Phil made a sound in his throat that Clint knew was a stifled laugh, and the corner of Delaware’s mouth quirked. “It’s palak paneer. Extra spicy.”

“Fuckin’ awesome.” Clint shovelled a spoonful into his mouth. “Do we have this at home?”

“I get that all the time, and you always say it looks like vomit.”

“It _does_ look like vomit. You never said it was delicious vomit.”

Delaware was watching Clint with a flat expression, like he was listening to a joke and didn’t know if it was funny. Clint just smiled back at him and kept eating.

“My leftovers will never be safe again,” Phil said dryly.

“Your leftovers were never safe to begin with.”

“Wouldn’t those be shared leftovers?” Delaware asked lightly, his face expressionless. “Since you do live together.”

Phil went absolutely still, the way he did at the sound of unexpected gunfire. “I suppose so,” he said. His tone was easy and at odds with the sudden spike in tension. “But there’s such a thing as courtesy.”

Delaware laughed, and Clint had no idea what was going on. “Courtesy. Right. Are you a courteous kind of guy, Agent Barton?”

Clint shrugged. “Not really. In my defense, he leaves leftovers in the fridge for weeks.”

“ _A_ week. One. Singular. And I know that because that’s how long you’ll wait before taking them,” Phil said. “I timed you.”

“Hey, you snooze you lose.”

Phil blinked. “Did you... did you actually just say that?”

Clint grinned back at him. “You’re just awed by my ancient wisdom.”

“One of your boys used to steal stuff out of the fridge,” Delaware remarked idly. “Which one was that?”

Phil frowned. “What are you talking about?”

“You know. The skinny kid with the face like someone kicked his puppy.” He waved a hand at Clint. “Kind of looked like this one might have.”

Clint wasn’t sure what to make of that, but Phil shook his head. “Wait. Are you talking about Scott Choovanski? Big blue eyes, hair out to here?”

Delaware snapped his fingers. “That’s the one.”

“Dad, he stole food because his step-dad starved him,” Phil said, and Delaware blinked, frowning.

“You’re kidding. Well, why didn’t you tell anybody?”

“I told Pop. He took care of it.”

Something in Phil’s tone suggested that “taking care of it” hadn’t involved official channels, and Clint was beginning to understand how Phil had grown to be the man he was.

“And Scott’s older sister was my junior lab partner,” Phil added. “He was twelve and definitely not one of my boys.”

Clint laughed. “Say it like that, it sounds like you had a harem.”

The fact that Phil didn’t immediately roll his eyes or chuckle or sigh or react at all as if that was an hilarious concept made the little knot in Clint’s stomach twist just a fraction tighter.

“More of a fanclub, really. PJ was quite the rebel,” Delaware said, and Clint couldn’t tell if he was mocking Phil or praising him. Then he turned to Clint with a smile. “But you know that. You’ve seen how he can be about following orders.”

“Can I ask what that’s supposed to imply?” Phil asked, but Clint knew. More to the point, he knew that the barb wasn’t aimed at Phil.

“Well, the letter of the law usually has some questionable grammar,” Clint drawled. “And he always gets the job done.”

Phil looked from his father to Clint with a questioning glance, but Delaware went on. “Both true. But commitment to the job can be a hard prospect when there are... distractions.”

“Distractions like what?” Clint asked. “A moral compass and a sense of loyalty?”

“Or having a reckless partner,” Delaware replied coolly. That struck Clint a little harder than he’d expected, but Delaware wasn’t finished. “Or fucking said partner, who is ten years younger two clearance levels lower.”

“Don’t forget circus freak, grade school drop-out, runaway, convicted criminal, and general asshole,” Clint said brightly. “The list goes on, but I think those are the highlights.”

Phil snapped, “That’s enough. Both of you.”

Clint shut his mouth, but Delaware gave him a hard stare.

“You know, I think maybe that is enough,” Delaware muttered, pushing himself up from the table. “You don’t mind cleaning up, do you PJ.”

It wasn’t a question, and Phil watched him leave with a dark stare and no reply. When he was gone, Clint sighed and smiled, “So, that could have been worse.” Phil raised an eyebrow. “I mean, nobody got punched, and he wasn’t openly insulting.”

“No, he was _covertly_ insulting,” Phil grumbled, and Clint shrugged.

“I’ve been insulted before.”

"I know," Phil said. "That doesn't make it any easier for me to hear."

Clint grinned. "You worried about defending my honor, sir?"

"Your honor is a lost cause, Agent Barton. I don't want your feelings to get hurt."

Clint rolled his eyes. "Because I'm such a delicate flower."

"Because you're a delicate flower.” Phil sat back, shaking his head. “No, you’re right. Of course it doesn’t matter. He’s a hard-headed old man, and he’ll find fault in everything.” He glanced at Clint and smiled. “Even you.”

Clint snorted. “You don’t have to look hard to find fault with me.”

“I disagree,” Phil said. “I’ve been looking very hard, and every fault I’ve found has turned out to be a facet.”

“Fuck off. You’re such a sap.” Clint wasn’t blushing. He wasn’t.

He might have blushed a little, though, when Phil lifted his hand and pressed a soft kiss to his palm. “Only for you.”

Clint coughed and heaved a loud sigh to cover the rushing in his ears. “Yeah, yeah. Let’s get this cleaned up before you start with the Shakespeare.”

“Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day,” he began, and Clint shoved a piece of bread in his mouth.

They cleared the table quickly, and Clint spent the remainder of the evening entertaining himself with Phil’s old books, wrapped in the pink coverlet, while Phil sorted through declassified mission documents on his tablet. With SHIELD, there was no such thing as a vacation, no chance for a true day off, and these moments of peaceful domesticity were the closest they could get. Clint savored every second of it.

Eventually, his eyes started to drop closed, and he shut the comic in his hands with a yawn. With the coverlet still wrapped around his shoulders, he crossed to the cot against the wall and eased into it. It wasn’t the first field bed he’d slept in, and it certainly wasn’t the worst, though he tried not to think too much about the suspiciously loud groans of metal.

“What are you doing?”

He looked up to find Phil frowning at him from the bed. “Going to sleep. Y’know, that thing you forget to do.”

“Yes, I deduced that,” Phil said. “Why are you sleeping over there?”

“Because, one, that bed isn’t big enough for one of us, much less both of us,” Clint replied, pulling the coverlet close around him. “And, two, your dad went to the trouble of making this up for me, and, whatever else he may be, he is a scary bastard.”

Phil arched an eyebrow and set aside his tablet. “You’re sleeping on a rack on the other side of the room because you’re afraid of my father?”

“Not afraid,” Clint said. “Cautious. He’s a trained SHIELD agent, and we’re on his turf. He’s probably already thought of a hundred ways to kill me and make it look like an accident.”

“Probably,” Phil admitted. He gave Clint a thoughtful look and asked, “Would it help if I said I’d protect you?”

Clint smiled. “Does make me feel a little better.”

“What if I promise not to steal the covers?”

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep.”

Phil gave him an answering smile. “I never do.”

“Fine,” Clint sighed, “but you get the wall side.”

The bed really was too small for the two of them, and they wound up pressed tightly back-to-front, with Clint balancing on the edge.

“See,” Phil murmured into the back of his neck. “Plenty of room.”

Clint squirmed, settling into Phil’s arms in the narrow space. “If I fall off this bed, I’m taking you with me.”

He could feel the smile on Phil’s lips as they pressed against his shoulder. “I won’t let you fall.”

“Sap.”

Phil hummed, trailing kisses along Clint’s neck. “It’s a well-documented fact that you bring out the worst in me.”

“Uh huh. And does that worst include trying to seduce me in the bed where you slept _as a kid_?” However much he wanted to melt into the touch, Clint couldn’t shake the unsettling feeling that there was something... wrong about it.

“It’s also the bed where I masturbated as a teenager.”

“Cute. Still not better.”

Phil’s hand was warm and firm, his fingers spread across Clint’s stomach. “I never had sex in this bed, though.” He dragged his teeth across the soft skin behind Clint’s ear. “You’d be the first.”

Clint sighed and threaded his fingers through Phil’s. “Yeah, as much as I’d love to help you fulfill whatever weird adult rebellion thing you’re going for, I’m just not into it.”

There was a moment of dead, ringing silence, then Phil pulled back and asked quietly, “What?”

Clint closed his eyes and gave himself a swift mental kick. “Nothing. Forget it. Just.... Let’s just go to sleep, okay?”

“No.” Phil propped himself up on one elbow, and Clint turned his face up to see him. “What do you mean ‘adult rebellion thing’?”

“I just mean, y’know, I think you’re kinda getting off on the idea of doing something your dad won’t like.”

Phil’s eyebrow raising was a flicker in the shadows on his face. “Something like making love to my attractive partner, who I live with? I think that hardly counts as an act of rebellion.”

“Maybe not,” Clint admitted. “But fucking your boyfriend on a twin bed in your dad’s house does.”

Phil blinked at him through the dark. “That’s not.... Is that what you think? That I’m trying to satisfy some kind of impulse to undermine my father’s authority?”

“Yes.”

“Clint....”

“I’m not mad, or anything,” Clint told him honestly. “I mean, I get it. I just feel kinda weird about actually doing it.”

Phil stared at him in silence, and Clint shifted, burrowing down into the covers and wishing he hadn’t said anything.

“Look, I promise you can blow me in the car on the way back to the airport, but you’re gonna have to wait until then, okay?”

To Clint’s relief, Phil breathed out a surprised laugh. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep.” He eased back down onto the bed, drawing his hand up so that his palm and Clint’s were pressed over Clint’s heart. “I’m sorry,” he murmured. “I love you.”

Clint sighed and ignored the way his pulse still and always sped up at the sound of that. “I know you do, dumbass. I love you, too. Now go the fuck to sleep.”

Phil’s arm stayed tight around him through the night.

Breakfast the next morning was a mercifully brief affair. Delaware sat at the kitchen table, sipping coffee and eyeing Clint over the top of his newspaper. Clint gave him a bright smile and brief greetings of “Morning” were exchanged all around.

After a few moments stirring his cereal, Phil cleared his throat and said mildly, “I thought we’d stop by the library this morning. Say hello to missus Johnson.”

The words didn’t seem to be meant for anyone in particular, but Delaware went right on sipping his coffee as though nothing had happened, so Clint just grinned and nodded. “Sure. Sounds good.”

Phil gave him a grateful smile. “You’ll like her. She used to give me peppermints if I could recite passages from whatever I checked out.”

Clint laughed. “Feel like I should brush up on my Sunday school verses,” he said, and Phil made a face.

“Don’t you dare. She’ll come back at you with Milton, and we’ll never get out alive.”

From behind his paper, Delaware snorted but said nothing. Phil gave him a dark look and turned back to Clint. “Try Kristeva. She’s usually spoiling for a good hit of theory.” Clint frowned, and Phil said, “Don’t give me that look. I know what you’ve been reading.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Clint finished his stale, sugary cereal and swallowed down the rest of his burnt coffee. “Guess I’d better go shower, then. Don’t wanna embarrass you by smelling like a pig.”

“Of course,” Phil said dryly. “There’s so many other ways you can embarrass me.”

“I know. I have a list.”

Without looking up, Delaware said, “Towels are under the sink.”

Clint paused and exchanged a glance with Phil, who shook his head and rolled his eyes. Par for the course, then, Clint figured, and he went on his way.

When he came back, damp and warm and feeling generally better about life, he heard Phil’s voice from the kitchen, tight and tense and dangerously low.

“...gotten into you? I expect you to at least be decent.”

“Decent would’ve been telling me you were living with him instead of letting me read it in his file.” Delaware met Phil’s tone ounce for ounce, and Clint flinched. “Decent would’ve been telling me his name before you announced you were bringing him home for Thanksgiving.”

“Why bother?” Phil snapped. “You’re still going to get your contacts to verify whatever I tell you.”

“Did you ever think I might like to hear it from you, first?” Delaware’s voice was cold, an echo of Phil’s icy rage. “Did you ever think I might just want to _know_?”

“No.”

“Philip.”

“You’re not going to scare this one off.”

“Son, if all it takes to run him off is a little family drama, then you’ve got bigger problems than me.”

And that, Clint decided, was as far as that conversation needed to go. “Man, I feel better,” he announced, rounding the corner into the kitchen. Both Phil and Delaware looked up, startled. “Fucking airplanes. It’s like that gross air just sticks to you.” He leaned casually against the door frame and gave Phil half a smile. “Green?”

For a moment, they both stared at him, uncertain. Then Phil cleared his throat and nodded. “Green.”

“Awesome.” Clint grinned and aimed a small wave at Delaware as Phil, already clean and dressed, stood to leave. “See you later, Mister Delaware. Thanks for breakfast.”

Delaware watched them go with narrowed eyes and said nothing.

The first few minutes in the car were spent in silence, and Clint watched the neat suburban lawns go by with a sort of alien curiosity. Places like this were a foreign world, one that he’d only really seen on television, and he wasn’t quite sure what to make of all the two-car garages and curtained bay windows.

“About last night....” Phil began, and Clint cut him off.

“You already said you were sorry.”

“I know, I just....” Phil sighed. “I am. Sorry. And I’m sorry for my dad and breakfast and for dragging you out here.”

Clint turned to him with a smirk. “Bombay.”

“What?”

“You remember that three-way blitz in Bombay where everything on my end went totally sideways, and Natasha had to commandeer a construction crane to fish me out of that cistern?”

Phil shuddered. “Difficult to forget.”

He’d been stuck in that hot, septic sludge for eight hours and had come out with a host of infections, delirious and babbling. “I kept saying I was sorry. I was just listing everything that had gone wrong and saying I was sorry, and you know what Nat said? She said if I kept apologizing for things that weren’t my fault, she was going to throw me back in.” He fixed Phil with a stern look. “Do you want me to find a crusty cistern?”

“Point taken.”

They pulled into the pitted parking lot of a small public library. Construction paper signs in its streaky windows showed leaves and acorns and wishes for a happy season. It seemed, somehow, too pastoral to be a real place, filled with real books, that occupied a real place in Phil’s history. Had he come here after school? Clint wondered. Had he read his spy novels and studied for tests and stared out the window, daydreaming about Captain America? Had he looked at the naked drawings in the anatomy textbooks and made out in the stacks with boys named Ray?

As they climbed out of the car, Phil told him seriously, “Whatever you do, don’t mention cats or food. Or the Dewey Decimal system. Or public transportation.”

Clint gave him a sideways glance, and Phil stared placidly back. Clint shrugged. “Whatever you say, sir.”

“Don’t call me ‘sir’,” he said. “Not here. She’ll either swoon about soldiers in love or give me a lecture on power dynamics.”

“You getting a lecture. Now that I’d like to hear.”

“Give it five minutes.”

Inside, the library was cool and dimly lit, a sharp contrast to the morning brightness, and Clint’s eyes were still adjusting when a woman’s voice rang out, “You scrawny son of a bitch.”

He blinked away the spots to see an old woman with light brown skin and a pristine purple pant suit wrap her spindly arms around Phil in a tight hug. Phil returned the hug with a grin that made him look a decade younger. “Hi, Missus J.”

She pulled back to look at him, patting his arms affectionately with her thin, wrinkled hands. “My goodness but you grew up handsome. Like a damn movie star.”

The tips of Phil’s ears turned bright pink. “You say that every time I see you, and it’s still not true.”

“Oh!” She swatted his elbow and turned her attention on Clint, studying him over the rims of thick tortoise shell glasses. “And who is this young thing you’ve got tailing after you?”

“This,” Phil said, smiling, “is Clint.”

Clint gave her his brightest grin and held out a hand. “Pleased to meet you, ma’am.”

She clasped his hand firmly in both of hers and cooed, “Honey, with eyes like that, you can call me Corinne.”

“In that case, Corinne, it’s a real pleasure.” Clint kissed the back of her hand lightly and winked.

Phil rolled his eyes and gave her a gentle prod in the shoulder. “Alright, that’s enough.”

She turned on Phil with a grin and didn’t let go of Clint’s hand. “PJ, I swear, if I was thirty years younger, you’d have some competition for this one.”

“Don’t let him fool you,” Phil said. “He’s not half as charming as he thinks he is.”

“He’s right about that,” Clint told her, and she patted his hand.

“A little bit of charm and a good looking face will get you pretty far,” she said. “Getting _him_ to bring you here, though, I’m guessing you got a little more than a nice smile.” To Phil, she asked, “You brought him to your daddy’s?”

Phil’s expression darkened. “Yes. We’re staying there.”

“Of course you are.” She trundled briskly back toward the circulation desk, waving them along behind her. The library was empty, as far as Clint could tell, and neither she nor Phil seemed concerned with keeping their voices down. “How’s old Canton?”

“Same as ever,” Phil replied flatly, and Missus Johnson shook her head.

“You’d think the Delaware men were part goat, the way they butt heads,” she told Clint. “Only time he and his daddy get along is when they’re both mad at somebody else.”

Clint got the feeling there was more to the conflict than sheer bullheadedness, but he figured that didn’t help, either. “You’ve known, uh, _PJ_ a long time?”

Phil shot him a warning look, and Clint grinned back at him. Mrs. Johnson beamed. “Since he was too short to see over the desk,” she confirmed, rifling through one of the many overstuffed drawers. “Still remember the first time I saw him, this skinny little white boy with a stack of books bigger than he was. Leroy kept trying to help, but PJ _insisted_ he could carry them himself. Here we are!” She produced a small, laminated newspaper clipping from a file and handed it to Clint.

The clip was a brief write-up about a Veteran’s Day essay contest with a faded, grainy photo of a thin boy sitting between two smiling men. The caption beneath the photo read, _Contest winner PJ Delaware, with dad Canton and family friend Leroy...._

“Coulson.” Clint looked up from the picture to find Phil staring down at it with a strange expression. He met Clint’s eyes and smiled sadly.

“That’s my pop,” he said, indicating the man with dark skin and a broad smile. Leroy Coulson.

“God rest him,” Mrs. Johnson murmured. She gave Phil a beaming smile. “He was so damn proud of you. Every time you called or wrote home or anything, he’d come straight down here and tell me every last word. He’d say if you ever got put in charge, we’d have world peace in a second.”

“Well, he was right about that,” Clint said. Phil laughed, and Clint could see the bright glint of tears in his eyes.

“He was right about a lot of things.” Phil handed the clipping back to Mrs. Johnson with a quiet, “Thank you.”

She put it away and sighed. “Leroy was a good man. Your daddy never did get over losing him.”

Phil tensed at that, and Clint fought the urge to reach out and lay a hand on his shoulder. “He misses him,” Phil agreed stiffly, and Mrs. Johnson turned back to take both of his hands in her small grip.

“The lord’s put a lot of weight on that man’s shoulders,” she said. “I know you’ve got more than a little on yours, too, but you two have got to learn that sniping at each other’s not gonna make those loads any lighter.”

Slowly, Phil nodded. “You’re right. Of course. I know that.”

She gave him a pat on the arm, smiling. “This time of year, you’re supposed be thankful for the good things.” Phil looked like he was about to say something, but she cut him off. “Celebrate the spirit of the season, just don’t forget the history of genocide and white stupidity.”

Yeah. Clint definitely liked this lady. Phil nodded again and said contritely, “Yes, ma’am.”

She beamed and leaned up to give him a kiss on the cheek. “Alright, that’s enough nostalgia for one day. I’ve got work to do, and it’s not gonna get done with you two dreamboats standing around.”

Phil wrapped her in a tight hug, and he looked somehow younger and more relaxed than Clint had ever seen him. “Thank you. I’ll send another postcard soon.”

“Or try your hand at a letter, sometime. I’m not so old that I can’t read complete paragraphs.” She swatted at his arm, and there was a sheen of dampness in her eyes. Turning to Clint, she held out her thin arms and hugged him warmly. “I don’t know who you are or where you came from, but I know you’re good for PJ, and that’s all I need.”

“I do my best.” Clint caught Phil’s eye over her head and smiled. The look Phil gave him was full and perfect, and it hit Clint all over again how stupidly in love he was with this man.

After a brief driving tour of the area, they stopped at a small grocery store packed with other shoppers seeking last-minute provisions. Clint carried a plastic basket and followed Phil’s lead as they maneuvered through the harried crowd and picked-over shelves.

A dozen questions tugged at the back of Clint’s mind, but the one he asked was, “So where did you have sex?”

“ _What?_ ”

“You said you never had sex in your bed at home. So where did you do it?” Clint elbowed him lightly, grinning. “C’mon. How old were you the first time? Where was it?”

“Why the hell would you want to know that?” Phil asked, scowling.

“I dunno. I’m just getting this picture of you as a kid.” Clint shrugged. “I wanna know what you were like.”

“I was a mess,” Phil answered immediately. “I was always in trouble, and I had terrible taste in guys.”

Clint laughed. “You’re kidding.”

“I actually lost count of the number of times I was arrested. Most of the local cops knew my address by heart.” Phil gave a miserable scowl. “I’m not joking when I say I made bad choices. I wasn’t smart about what I did, and I _certainly_ wasn’t smart about sex.”

Clint leaned back, startled. “I’m sorry I didn’t mean t-“

“No. No, it’s not…” Phil sighed. “I was fourteen, and it was in a bathroom at a house party. I think he was somebody’s older brother. I don’t even remember his name.”

“Wow,” Clint said quietly, and Phil gave him a sad smile.

“Just one of many unfortunate decisions,” Phil said. “Ages seven through seventeen were characterized largely by recklessness and misplaced aggression.”

It might have been difficult to picture Phil as a young man, careless and angry, but Clint had seen enough of his fury to imagine what it might have been like before years and experience had tempered it. “Your old man must’ve given you hell for that.”

“Who? Dad? He wasn’t there.” Phil shook his head. “Once he signed on with SHIELD, we only saw him a few weeks out of every year. Pop tried to keep me in line, but I was always a good liar.”

A middle-aged woman in a fleece jacket gave them a withering glare as she pushed past, and Clint stuck out his tongue at her. Grocery stores were something like Clint’s idea of hell: an endless, twisting maze through which miserable strangers trudged in circles under glaring lights, surrounded by food they couldn’t eat, as tinny holiday jingles played over an ancient sound system.

“You’re not actually going to cook, are you?” Clint asked, shaking the small assortment of packages in his basket.

“God, no. I’m going to leave most of this in the kitchen and get out of the way while dad cooks. Or tries to cook,” Phil said. “My contribution begins and ends with a jug of apple cider.”

“Okay, good. You had me worried, there.”

Phil tossed a can of something into the basket and grimaced. “Just pray dad doesn’t set anything on fire. Again.”

When they returned to the house, some kind of kitchen project was already underway. As promised, Phil deposited the groceries on the table with a brief offer to help and was answered with a dismissive wave and a string of curses. Clint retreated to the living room, and Phil joined him a moment later with two mugs of burnt coffee, leftover from the morning’s pot.

“You sure we can’t do anything to help?” Clint asked. “I feel kinda useless.”

Phil scowled. “Believe me, the only thing worse than being useless is giving him help he doesn’t want. Just keep an ear out for anything breaking.”

“Copy that.” Clint stretched out on the couch and propped his stocking feet up on Phil’s knee. “What’s he making?”

“I think it’s supposed to resemble tuna casserole, but we’ll see.” Phil leaned back, letting out a deep breath and resting his free hand on Clint’s ankle. “Not that it matters. He could show up with a bag of stale potato chips, and everybody at the community center would tell him how great they were.” Clint gave him a curious look, and he smiled. “Pop used to try and make the worst food he could, just to see if anybody would say something, but they all felt so bad for this poor man, all alone, raising someone else’s kid, no mother to help with the cooking... He once brought a bowl full of canned fruited with some whipped cream on top, and no less than nine people asked for the recipe.”

Clint laughed. “So the tradition continues.”

“If you’re going to be the subject of pity, you may as well have fun with it,” Phil said. His face softened, and he added, quietly, “Nobody in this house ever could cook.”

“Good,” Clint said, and Phil raised an eyebrow. “I mean, I’d feel kinda cheated if you’d grown up with, like, gourmet shit, and everything you make is out of a box.” Phil raised both eyebrows. “Shut up.”

He tugged absently at the worn hem of Clint’s jeans and said, “I wonder, sometimes, how things might have been different if you and I had grown up together.”

Clint snorted. “Yeah, that nine-year age gap wouldn’t make that skeevy at all.”

“That’s not what I meant. I just…” He poked at the side of Clint’s leg, flushing. “I think I’d have been a better person if I’d met you when I was younger, and you… Well, a lot of things would have happened differently, I think.”

It was both peaceful and haunting to imagine another universe in which Phil held his hand through the storm of his childhood, in which the worst of his memories were just half-formed possibilities that never came to pass. Clint sat up and scooted closer on the couch, letting his knees drape over Phil’s.

“Tell me about it,” he said. “What’s my life like in this magical dimension?”

Phil narrowed his eyes, like he was trying to decide whether Clint was teasing him, then he cleared his throat and settled deeper into the couch, leaning his shoulder against Clint’s. “You grew up down the street,” he said. “You’d come here when your brother and the older kids were mean to you, because you knew I wouldn’t let them. When I got my car, I started driving you and Barney to school, and sometimes you’d stay for dinner.” Phil smiled, and Clint couldn’t help but smile back, charmed by the recollection of nonexistent evenings. “Pop liked that. You’d eat whatever he put in front of you like it was five-star cuisine.”

Clint laughed. “Compared to what we usually ate, it would’ve been.”

Phil’s smile flickered, but he went on, “By the time I went to college, you were old enough to take the bus on your own, but you’d still come see Pop after school and he’d let you call and talk to me.”

“Uh uh. No way grown-up college boy you would wanna waste time talking to snotty eight-year-old me.”

“You were a very sophisticated eight-year-old,” Phil said seriously, and Clint gave him a look. “Okay, you were a very _insistent_ eight-year-old, and I had a soft spot for you.”

Clint grinned. “Did you still join the army in this dimension?”

“No. No, I don’t think so.” Phil slipped his arm under Clint’s and threaded their fingers together. “Law school, probably. In Chicago, so I could come home for weekends, sometimes. Go to your archery meets.”

Clint blinked, surprised. “Even in your fantasy world, I’m still an archer?”

“Of course.” Phil frowned. “Is that okay?”

“Yeah. It’s perfect. It’s just…” Clint shrugged, smiling slyly. “You know I’d beat the pants off those little league punks.”

“Obviously. That’s why you were the youngest marksman ever to win a gold medal.”

Clint laughed so hard his face hurt. “I like your imaginary universe.”

Phil grinned happily back at him. “Isn’t it wonderful?”

“Okay, so let me guess,” Clint said. “Upon seeing my extraordinary display of skill, you realized that the little brat had grown up, and you immediately fell madly in love.”

Phil made a face. “Ew. No, you were fourteen. We didn’t fall in love until you went to college.”

Clint raised his eyebrows. “I went to college?”

“Yes.”

“ _I_ went to college?”

“Clint.”

“No but seriously. If you think that any version of me in any universe would ever go to college, then I think we need to talk about managing expectations.”

Clint wasn’t half as dumb as he let most people believe, but he also wasn’t half as smart as Phil seemed to think he was. Or wanted him to be.

“My expectations are perfectly realistic,” Phil said patiently. “You’re one of th-“

From the kitchen, there was the sudden and unmistakable sound of something exploding.

Clint was on the floor in a second, using the back of the couch as cover, reaching for the knife at his back, cursing himself for leaving his bow and quiver in the bedroom. Phil had a compact derringer in one hand and the other on Clint’s shoulder, keeping him down.

“Dad?” Phil called out and was answered with a loud, unintelligible curse and a billow of smoke.

“Fine!” Delaware shouted back between fits of coughing. “Everything’s fine!”

Down the hall, the smoke alarm started.

“Oh for fuck’s sake.” Phil grumbled, putting away the gun. He climbed over the couch, and Clint followed his lead warily.

The explosion – and it was definitely an explosion – had been mostly contained to the oven, but there were scorch marks and a splatters of tuna casserole across the nearby floor and cabinets. A thick haze of white smoke hung around the ceiling.

“Watch out for the glass,” Delaware snapped, and Clint side-stepped what looked like a sliver of baking dish as Phil flipped on the ventilation fan.

“Are you okay?” Clint asked.

Delaware shot him a dark look. “I said I’m _fine_. One of you pull your thumb out and go stop that noise.”

Phil vanished into the hallway, and, a moment later, the piercing smoke alarm stopped, leaving the hazy kitchen in startling silence. Delaware waved a towel over his head, fanning the acrid smoke toward the vent, and Clint cracked the small window to help air out the smell of burnt tuna.

“I told you that oven was busted,” Delaware said to Phil, as he returned carrying a broom and dust pan.

“Well, it is now.” Phil bent to peer into the blackened remains of the oven’s interior. “So much for tuna casserole.”

“It was a tuna surprise,” Clint remarked, and Delaware gave a snort of laughter, quickly masked by a cough and a scowl.

“Guess we’re showing up empty-handed, this year.” Delaware nodded at the plastic jug of apple cider on the table. “Except for that sugar water you got.”

“We can stop by the deli and get a tub of something.”

Delaware shook his head. “They’re closing early, today.”

Phil sighed. “Well, anywhere’s going be closed by the time we get this cleaned up.”

“So you go find something, and we’ll clean up,” Clint said, and father and son turned to him with identical looks of confusion. Clint rolled his eyes and said to Delaware, “I think we can avoid open warfare long enough to clean the kitchen.”

Delaware stared back at him for a long moment, calculating, then shrugged. Phil let out a breath and ran a hand over his face. “He keeps a loaded pistol in the center cabinet,” he told Clint, then turned to Delaware. “He has a throwing knife in a back sheath.”

Clint and Delaware exchanged a look.

“I’ll be back in twenty minutes.” As he went out the door, Phil added over his shoulder, “Please don’t kill each other.”

In silence, they set about clearing the splintered glass and scorched food off of the floor. Clint let the quiet stretch until it was almost comfortable, then said evenly, “So I guess there’s probably some things you’d like to say to me.”

Delaware glanced at him sharply. “I thought we were avoiding open warfare.”

“I’m not planning to fight,” Clint replied. “Just clearing the air.”

Delaware turned away to scrub some of the mess off of the countertop, and there was a long pause before he said, “I saw the report on London.” Clint wouldn’t let himself flinch. “The version I read was redacted all to hell, obviously, but I got the idea.”

“Yeah, that one didn’t exactly go as planned.”

“They never do, do they?” Delaware threw a piece of glass into the trash can with a little more force than necessary. “But a plan going wrong is one thing. Assaulting a superior is a little different.”

Clint went on cleaning and answered quietly, “He did what he thought he had to.”

“For _you_ ,” Delaware snapped. “I know PJ’s heart can get ahead of his brain, sometimes, but it seems to me like his brain’s taken a permanent backseat.” He turned around to give Clint the full weight of his glare. “He looks at you, and he sees all his dreams come true. You know what I see?”

Clint stood up, facing him. “I’m guessing not a future son-in-law.”

“A liability.”

“And?”

That brought Delaware up short. “And you don’t see how I might be unhappy about that?”

“Sure I can.” Clint shrugged. “But liabilities are a fact of the job, one I figured you’d understand, since you had a kid and a husband at home.”

“At _home_ ,” Delaware said. “Far away. Safe. Not out in the line of fire.”

“So I’m one more thing he has to worry about, sure, but there’s a dozen other things he _doesn’t_ have to worry about because I’ve got his back.” Clint swept up the last of the mess on the floor. “You’ve got a whole laundry list of reasons to hate me, so you can do better than _liability_.”

Delaware stared him down with a look that would have made a lesser man piss himself, but Clint had been on the receiving end of that look enough times to stare back without blinking. He didn’t remember it being quite so terrifying when it came from Phil, though.

Finally, Delaware gave a thoughtful hum and went back to wiping down the cabinet doors. “I’ll have to give that one some consideration.”

“Take your time,” Clint told him. “I’m not going anywhere.”

By the time Phil got back, the kitchen had been more or less restored to its pre-explosion state, the oven interior notwithstanding. Delaware had begrudgingly allowed Clint to help wash dishes, and they stood side-by-side at the sink in almost amicable silence.

Phil eyed them with a degree of suspicion, and Clint smiled back.

“What did you get?” Delaware asked.

“Pasta salad.” Phil set a small container on the table. “Do you want to put it in something or leave it in the plastic?”

“Leave it. We can tell them your boyfriend nearly burned down the house.“

Clint blinked at him in surprise. “When did this become my fault?”

“I’m not saying it’s your fault. I’m saying you blink those big blue eyes and tell everyone how this is your first real Thanksgiving, and you just wanted to contribute something special only you never learned to cook properly, what with growing up a homeless orphan and all.” Delaware levelled a finger at Clint. “You sell that story, you’re set.”

“Huh. That’s a pretty solid infiltration plan.” It wouldn’t be the first time Clint had used the Oliver Twist routine, and he’d pulled bigger scams for less.

“I’ll give you twenty bucks if you make Rufus Nelson cry.”

“Deal.”

Phil looked between them in bemused horror. “Dear god, what have I done.”

Delaware jerked his head toward Clint and said to Phil, “This one’s got metal in him.”

“I’m aware,” Phil said dryly, giving Clint a warm smile.

A sudden buzzing came from Phil’s pocket, and the smile evaporated as he pulled out his phone. “Yes?”

Clint was already drying his hands, watching Phil’s face for a sign of how quickly they needed to move out. The lines between his brows deepened, and Clint ducked out of the kitchen, heading for the bedroom. He had his bag packed in five seconds and Phil’s done in ten. He was pulling his boots on as Phil came through the door.

“Situation?” Clint asked, and Phil nodded. “Transport?”

“Meeting us on the tarmac.” He reached for his bag and hesitated. “Clint, I’m...”

“I swear to god, if you say you’re sorry, I’m gonna leave you here.”

Phil paused. “I’m glad to see you and dad getting along.”

“Don’t start celebrating just yet,” Clint told him. “I think I’ve still got some sucking up to do.”

“It’s a start, anyway.” Phil hefted the duffel onto his shoulder just as Clint stood. “Green?”

“Green.”

Delaware was standing in the entryway as they made their way out, impassive and unreadable, and a stricken shadow crossed Phil’s face. “Dad…”

“I know,” he said. Phil stopped, and Delaware snapped, “Don’t stand there looking like I’m new to this. Get going.”

Phil nodded once and opened the door. As Clint started after him, Delaware said, “Barton.”

Clint turned and met his eye. “Sir?”

“You look after my boy.”

Clint smiled. “Yes, sir.”

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [May - December](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1131775) by [shadowen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/shadowen/pseuds/shadowen)




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